


Sins of the Fathers

by orphan_account



Category: Final Fantasy X
Genre: Implied/Referenced Abortion, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Medical Trauma, Mpreg, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-06-04
Updated: 2004-06-04
Packaged: 2018-03-31 11:00:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 17,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3975613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six years after the final defeat of Sin, a young part-guado girl named Darra seeks out the only remaining link to her parentage in a last attempt to find out who she is. But when the truth finally surfaces, will she really want to know?</p><p>[I wrote this back in 2004, and while it DOES need a lot of polishing, I'm still strangely proud of it. Posted with thanks to all my old reviewers, all those years ago...]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The marks on her face were the first thing I noticed, poor girl. She could never be called beautiful, even at a stretch. Even without the lines, perhaps, which looked like thin scars at first, before you realised how dark and smooth they were, how much like veins…I knew who she was the moment I opened my door.

''Are you Heba? The midwife? ''

The very way she spoke suggested shyness, yet not once did her steady gaze leave mine. She had that same look in her eyes I'd seen all those years ago, both unstable and so very striking. Later on, I'd find it hard to believe that she hadn't guessed her parentage before; that she had never once been told how similar she was to Seymour, or how much her voice and manner resembled his.

Then again, she did not look like him. Apart from the lines across her cheeks, there was little in her appearance that reminded me of the former Maester. Her skin was darker. Her hair was black, and had a thick, matted quality to it- it hung limply over her skinny shoulders, looking perpetually damp. Her face was too angular, her blue eyes too deep-set and too piercing, to ever be called pretty. She lacked, in looks, the bizarre elegance that Seymour had possessed when he was still alive, in his later years at least.

But perhaps this too would come, with age. Sixteen years had passed since I brought her into the world, yet it felt longer. Spira had changed so much, in the past six years especially, and sometimes it seemed worlds apart from the one my mother and I had been born into. The places we had frequented were now rebuilt beyond recognition; the proud guado aristocrats we had once served, dying out.

I miss the time I spent in Guadosalam. For a long while, it was the only world I knew. And now I hear news of their race, declining by the year, left crumbling in the wake of an insane leader, and it pains me. Change is not always a positive thing. Sin is dead, but so are most of the guado youth, and with them, their future. When I first saw the girl, I wondered if she knew she was the last in an ancient line. Perhaps it doesn't even matter any more.

Standing either side of the threshold of my doorway, we regarded each other for a moment. It was she who finally broke the silence. The smooth, almost hollow tones of her voice were painfully familiar to me.

''…I'm Darra. ''

''I know who you are. '' I stepped back, holding the door open for her. ''I've been expecting you for a long time, Darra. Come in. ''

 


	2. Chapter 2

I belonged to the Old Yevonites by birth, but I think deep down my mother was never all that religious. She was a woman of science, and someone who took things seriously; she prayed only occasionally, and kept quiet when the subject of scripture came up. My mother held little faith in tradition, and was too practical to believe in anything but the most inescapable truths. In retrospect, it is hard to understand why Jyscal's wife trusted her so much.

She and my mother were inseparable, in the beginning- they had been best friends since my mother was ten, and when Anima married Jyscal and came to Guadosalam, my mother came with her. I was four years old at the time. I remember very little before the winding, oddly humid passageways of my childhood home, but I knew from early on that we had lived in Kilika before this, where my father had once worked as a fisherman until he was killed by Sin. I remember nothing of my father.

For a while, my mother studied with the Guado doctors and looked after me; later, she was the sole woman responsible for looking after Anima during and after her pregnancy, and later still, private nursemaid to the unstable half-breed child that was Seymour.

He had not always been insane. Unhappy, yes, but it was not until the death of his mother that the darker side of him began to show. Still, as a boy, he had never looked completely innocent; there was always a strange heaviness about him, as if he were forever carrying the burden of his mixed heritage on his shoulders. A sheltered childhood meant he escaped the taunts of other children, for the most part, but still the awareness of his own abnormality seemed to permeate the walls of that claustrophobic mansion; still the words whispered themselves in silent glances and the eyes of adults,  _you are different_.

Seymour hated it. His childhood was scourged by medical problems as a result of his mixed parentage- Guado are very different from humans, inside as well as out, and the conflicting genes within his young body came close to killing the boy many times. The isolation, too, of being different to everybody else he knew; he could not consider himself human, because he was not like them, and yet he could not consider himself fully Guado either.

Jyscal was not the only person in our household who didn't acknowledge these feelings of alienation and self-contempt. Even his mother, whom Seymour adored, abandoned him at the age of ten under the mistaken impression that he needed an aeon more than he needed her. Still, Lord Jyscal was the one who showed the least sensitivity towards his son's needs, and it was no surprise that the child grew up to hate his father.

I am surprised, given all this, that Seymour grew up to be as strong as he was. Perhaps he was making up for the powerlessness he felt in his youth, in the death of Anima, and, later on, the birth of his daughter.


	3. Chapter 3

The girl's gaze moved expressionlessly around my small home as she walked in, gripping her loose skirts with one tapered hand to avoid catching them on the doorframe. Her clothes were modest and unrevealing, a stark contrast to what most of us were wearing in these warm summer months, and even her sleeves were self-consciously long, half-covering the malformed and talon-like fingers that were characteristic of her guado descent.

"Sit down, Darra. Make yourself at home." I pushed aside the bead curtain that led to my bedroom, the coolest room in the house, where I kept the drinks. "So did you come here all by yourself?"

She didn't reply. I could almost sense the girl's discomfort; granted, she was doing her best to hide it, but I'd spent too much time around Seymour not to notice that underlying sense of awkwardness. She, too, felt different- incongruous to everything around her, missing something that everyone else had and yet never knowing what it was. The family resemblance was stronger than I had thought.

"Do your parents know you're here?" I ventured, after a second.

"My parents are dead."

"…I'm sorry to hear that." Darra was staring at the floor when I came back in, sitting precariously on the edge of her chair with her hands clasped tightly together, but she looked up when she heard me enter.

"It doesn't matter," she said. "They weren't my real parents, anyway."

"I know." What else could I have said? She genuinely didn't seem bothered. Perhaps, I thought, she had felt too separate from them all her life to care now.

Or perhaps, like Seymour, she was just particularly good at hiding things.

"How did it happen?" I asked.

"My mom- my adopted mother was killed by Sin when I was ten. My father died in an accident two years ago."

"I'm sorry. I knew your parents before you were born. They were good people."

"You knew my real parents as well, didn't you?"

Her words were sudden and accusatory; almost desperate. I recognised then that this was what she had been waiting her whole life to hear. I knew what she was thinking- that if she could only find some sort of tangible root to herself, if only she knew where she came from, then maybe her life would finally gain some sort of definition. Maybe she would finally know who she was.

And yet… she would finally know who she was. And that was the problem. I realised, prepared for her visit as I had been, I had never given any thought to whether or not she would be able to accept what I was about to tell her. The truth was so strange, the whole ordeal so hard to believe, that I was afraid of how she would react.

I didn't know how to start.

"Darra. This is going to take me a while to explain." Slowly, I sat down opposite her, trying to ignore the weight of her almost-frantic gaze.

"Why?" Her voice shook a little- she was close to breaking point. "What is there to explain? I just want to know who my parents are. Whether they're dead, or- or whether they didn't want me because of how I was, or… I just want to know why I'm like this."

"You are 'like that', Darra, because you are part-Guado." I tried to keep my voice steady, in an attempt to reassure the girl. "A quarter, to be precise. I thought you would have guessed."

Darra shook her head slowly. "My adopted parents never told me that."

"Your adopted parents didn't know."

"But-" This revelation alone was still taking some time to sink in, and she sounded a little subdued, if only from shock. "… I don't understand. There's only one half-guado old enough to be my father."

"Maester Seymour; I know. That's where your Guado side is from. As for the human…"

"You're mad." Her voice was thick and heavy with tears as she stood up, tried to push away from me. I took hold of her wrist firmly; she struggled away from my grip. "Seymour never had any children! He was a maniac bent on destroying Spira. That man is  _not_  my father and you are a  _sick_ woman!"

"Darra!" I stood up and grabbed her arm again. "Listen to me! I knew Seymour before he went insane. He was different. History may have lost that part of him, but I knew him before it all went wrong. And like it or not, you're his daughter, Darra. Look at your hands- look at the veins on your face. You're like him."

I could see her expression change as she realised. I was right, and the truth was inescapable. Her body seemed suddenly frozen beneath my grip; her icy gaze dropped to the floor again, eyes blank and numb and still coming to terms with what I had told her.

"And my mother?" she said quietly, after some time had passed. "It's you, isn't it? Or the woman he married- the summoner- was it her? I didn't…"

The part-guado girl trailed off. I let go of her arm gently.

"It's complicated. You… might want to sit down, Darra. As I said, this is going to take a while to explain. "


	4. Chapter 4

It was a well-hidden pregnancy. None of us even considered the possibility until it was five months along and too obvious for us to ignore. Even then, we may not even have realised had I not walked into the bedroom inadvertently that day, spotted the painful binds that had concealed a swollen stomach for so long wound half-around the hand of their frightened owner.

How terrifying it must be, to have all those changes take place in your body and never know why. Perhaps even Darra's mother did not realise- perhaps it was done simply out of vanity, and perhaps no thought had been given to the bouts of sickness or the strange developments that occur in a guado woman's body when she was about to give birth. Given the circumstances, I would not be surprised.

When we found out, none of us expected the baby to live.

But she did. Despite everything, Darra lived. It may have been Seymour's human side that saved her- though it may as well have been Seymour's human side that caused the problem in the first place. We would never know.

-x-

''Summoner Yuna is far too young to be your mother, Darra. You forget she was only seventeen when she defeated Sin. You would have been- how old then? Eleven? ''

''Ten. '' Darra pulled her sleeves over her fingers unconsciously. ''I was ten years old. My mother was… one of the last people it killed. ''

''I see. '' There was a moment's pause before I carried on. ''Seymour was… very young when you were born. Only eighteen. Yuna was far too young then to even have met him… and even if she had, I doubt…''

I trailed off, trying to ignore the girl's harsh, expectant gaze.  _She wants to know_ , I had to keep telling myself, but all the while I could not help wonder whether, after I had told her everything there was to tell, she would not want to forget.

''You have to remember that guado are very different from… from humans. What I'm about to tell you, you may find hard to understand, but it is true. Seymour had… a very rare genetic disorder…''

-x-

One of my earliest memories of Seymour, before he and his mother were sent to Baaj. I was very small- seven or eight years old, and in my haste my mother had forgotten to ensure I did not follow her on the way to Jyscal's office. She had been in the middle of brushing my hair when the alarm was raised; I, hairbrush in tow and eager for her to finish my plait, had tottered after her, making my way almost unnoticed through the corridors of the mansion as I had done many times before.

They had already lifted him up onto the desk, and he lay there now, his small form jerking in a series of desperate convulsions as the servants struggled to placate him. They were almost driven to panic by the severity of his coughing and the strangled choking sounds he was making, too frightening and too harsh to be coming from a child so small. In the distance I could hear my mother's voice, sterner than she had ever spoken to me.

''…closing up. Somebody get me a tube, or something _, hurry!_ ''

''…will not allow you to operate without an anaesthetic…'' Another servant. My mother's voice again, more urgent.

''…no choice. He'll stop breathing if we don't do something now…''

She had a scalpel in her hand. I had not noticed it before. Yet now, she brandished it with an almost inhuman determination. It scared me. But what scared me even more is the image that haunts me in my dreams even now; the moment before I backed out of the door again in terror, the moment she brought the blade down against Seymour's neck and positioned it, ready to make the incision.

-x-

''I don't understand. What does that have to do with anything? Are you saying I'm sick? ''

''No. Even if you did carry the gene, it wouldn't matter now. '' I stood up, headed over towards the curtains. ''It wouldn't affect you. And even if you did manage to pass it on, the chances of it happening again are infinitesimal…''

''The chances of  _what_  happening? ''

I drew the curtains open, and gave a long, low sigh.

''I was once told to keep this a secret all my life, '' I said. ''But I suppose it hardly matters anymore. After all, what power does the Guado government have to stop me now? And Maester Seymour is long dead. _Yevon_  is long dead. What purpose would it serve, now, to keep this under wraps? ''

Darra was silent in the background; waiting. I took a deep breath.

''We never knew who your father was. ''

''What?! '' Behind me, I could hear her stand up. ''You just told me Seymour was my father! I don't understand! What is this, some kind of sick joke? ''

''Calm down, Darra. I said you got your guado side from Seymour. I did not say he was your father. We never knew who your father was- Seymour never told us. Perhaps even he didn't know. ''

Darra listened wordlessly. I wanted her to say something,  _anything_. I didn't dare turn round. When I spoke again, my voice was quiet.

''As I said, Darra. A rare genetic disorder. A million in one chance. ''

Suddenly it seemed as if the only thing in the world was the silence between us. I could have heard a pin drop, could have heard the girl's sharp intake of breath as she pressed her hand to her lips and stared at me, not knowing whether to believe me or disbelieve me or turn and run and never come back.

'' _No…_ ''

-x-

Years later, when I was an adult and the tracheotomy scar and the pain had long faded from Seymour's neck, I would see that moment again in his eyes, and know it had haunted him as much as it had me.


	5. Chapter 5

''This can't be happening. ''

I turned around, very slowly, and looked at her. ''You don't believe me? ''

''I believe you. But only because I don't think I have any other choice. ''

''I see. ''

Darra had sat down again, probably due to the shock, and she was tracing her finger along the folds of her long black skirt, teasing out the fabric nervously. I could see now where the skin of her fingers had grown coarse and scaly, and where her half-formed nails, scathingly purple, had coiled inward, pinching the skin into a slight point. She had suffered from her heritage. Guado and human blood does not mix well.

''I don't understand how-'' she said finally, then trailed off, and started again. ''I mean, are you trying to tell me my father was a hermaphrodite? ''

''Not exactly, '' I replied, sitting opposite her. ''That's what made it so… unusual, if you may. Had he not become… pregnant, I doubt we would have known anything was wrong with him. ''

The girl put her head in her hands, resting her elbows on her spindly knees. ''This is all too strange, '' she said, in a weak, defeated tone of voice that struck chords deep within my memory. ''I'd say you were insane, but…''

''…but it makes too much sense? '' I attempted.

She gave a feeble smile. ''And at the same time, none at all. ''

''I know it may be hard to accept. But surely you remember that the ancestors of Seymour's race were successive hermaphrodites? Even from what scant medical knowledge we have left, I could tell you that some guado men have a vestigial uterus. And children are delivered differently… Darra. You have a thin mark beneath your stomach, yes? Like a crescent? ''

''…sort of. '' Tentatively, she lifted her shirt, pulling the waistband of her skirt down a little to reveal a long crease in the flesh- like a caesarean scar, but more  _formed_ , more innate. I nodded.

''The remnants of the birth canal. Like his, yours will not be fully developed. I am sorry to be the one to break it to you, but you might have problems conceiving in later life. ''

Darra just shrugged. I carried on.

''Even so, to this day I don't know the details, '' I admitted. ''Up to only a few years ago, it was illegal to even conduct an autopsy on the dead- impossible, as well, because most people were sent before we had the chance. Scientific study of this… phenomenon is sadly lacking, as it is in most areas. I don't know how he could have become pregnant- or at least, I don't know the mechanics of it. ''

The girl shook her head slowly.

''I thought the last time that happened was four hundred years ago, '' she said. ''I thought it was a myth. ''

''In the last century, there have been three incidents altogether that I know of, '' I replied, sitting opposite her. ''Their deaths were recorded as accidents. Your birth was the only one in which both parent and child survived. ''

''So they were never recorded. ''

''No. My mother only knew of them because she delivered the other two herself. Jyscal's family carry the defective gene, it seems, which is partly why they took such pains to cover up… what happened to Seymour. ''

''I see. '' Defective. I could see her running the word over and over in her head- I regretted saying it instantly.

''Darra, I'm sorry, '' I attempted. ''I should have broken it to you more gently. I don't mean that you were a mistake. Seymour-''

''Then why didn't they terminate me? '' she blurted out suddenly. ''If they didn't want me, why didn't Seymour just kill me? I don't understand. Why did he let this happen in the first place? Did he… was he raped? ''

''I don't know, '' I lied. ''As I said, he never told us who the father was. But it's possible he might have… well, he had… issues. With himself. Sometimes I… got the impression that there was something within him he couldn't accept, something that wasn't just the way he looked or who his parents were. It's complicated, '' I found myself repeating. Darra looked up at me.

''Tell me everything, '' she said.


	6. Chapter 6

Tell me everything, she says.

Where do I start?

A warm night, in the waning summer. The room is humid and heavy with the scent of blood, and something that smells like stagnant water. Seymour is holding my hand so tightly I feel like his scaly fingers are crushing it. There is a moment of silence and then his screams rip the air around us, sucking us in, piercing my shallow flesh.

No. Earlier. Winter, maybe, or early spring, in his room, and I'm putting my hands on his stomach and telling him it might be a growth of some sort. I can't help but notice that his eyes have softened a little, the way I imagine he used to look at his mother, and suddenly I realise he probably hasn't been touched like this for a long time. (Did he know, then? In retrospect, it seems more and more likely, but hindsight is the wisdom of fools.)

Earlier still. Perhaps this is where it started- on a cool evening in autumn, waving goodbye to a nameless pilgrim in the dusk. Honoured Visitors To Our Home. Or maybe not so nameless, after all- maybe my suspicions are right, and I have met the father. Yet to tell Darra this or not? A part of me thinks this is one secret I  _will_  have to take to the grave. But I digress.

Younger Seymour, or first of all his voice, mingling sweetly in the corridor with another's as I pass by. Seymour is the one telling the other to keep quiet, someone's coming, and the giggling makes some effort to subside. Then a servant whose name I have long forgotten is striding into the room and shouting, and Jyscal is called and then the house goes deathly quiet for a few hours. (Seymour was fifteen. I never knew how old the other boy was, and as far as I know I never saw him again.)

You tell me, Darra. Where do I start? Where did it all begin?

I have long debated this myself. I think of him at least once every day- more than, even, I think about the love I once carelessly threw away (but that's a different story entirely). Many times I have asked myself whether, if only we had known -if only we had paid more attention to him- we could have somehow been able to prevent his descent into madness and the deaths he left in its wake. And yet every time, I seem to draw the same conclusion; that Seymour was condemned to his fate from the moment he was born. A half-breed, and a mistake. Predestined to fall.

''Darra. Do you believe in fate? ''

The question startled her, I think. She was expecting me to start with some terrific revelation; a simple starting phrase that would explain everything in a few words. Perhaps it did, looking back, but then again, perhaps it is overly romantic to think that.

''I don't know, '' she said finally. ''Thinking about it, it seems a little unlikely. Nobody's really religious any more, you know? They're all too busy killing each other. '' A pause, and she picked at the skin of her hand. ''Why? Do you? ''

''No, '' I replied. ''Not… usually. Usually I think things don't have a reason. They just happen, and they cause other things to happen. It's a chain reaction, branching in random directions. But when I remember your… well, your mother, Darra… I somehow feel as if nothing could have changed the way things went. That, no matter what could have happened, your birth was inevitable.

''Or perhaps it's just another chain reaction, but one that was so set in its direction, from the moment it was started, it could never go in any other direction to the one it travelled in. Do you understand me, Darra? And it started the very moment Seymour was born.

''Let me start from the beginning…"


	7. Chapter 7

When Seymour was born, and we left Kilika to go and live with his parents, I was four years old- too young to remember anything but a few faint shapes above me, or disjointed memories and faces whose fragile connections to one another have disintegrated in the course of the years. At some point, I might have been jealous of my mother for spending too much time with the new baby, but I have no recollection of it. If I was, it was too early for me to remember now.

At first, I was not aware of any tension in the household, or why Seymour was so different from anyone else around me. Nor could I comprehend why sometimes both of us were shunned by the other children, on the rare and separate occasions that he and I were able to mix with them. I was vaguely aware that he was not allowed to play with me, but by the time he had reached an age where he was able to walk around on his own I was too old to care. At times I was lonely, having nobody else of my own age around, but for the most part my mother tried to keep me busy, and the other servants were usually only to happy to talk.

They used to say things about Seymour and his mother that I found hard to understand. Then, slowly, as I grew up, I began to realise why Anima didn't let him go outside, and why his skin and hair and face were different from everybody else's. Not only was he sick, he was also different, and the adults around me- intentionally or not- treated him as such. Even his mother, who loved him more than life itself, made the mistake of being too careful with his upbringing; she smothered him with too much affection and, until far too late an age for comfort, guarded him fiercely from the critical eyes of his peers.

He was a sheltered, almost spoilt child; I say almost because there were times in his life when he seemed to be on the verge of becoming normal. Sometimes Seymour could even be as amiable and unassuming as any other small boy. Overall, however, his childhood was one blighted by sickness, temper tantrums and, later, deep spells of depression- all fuelled by the innate unhappiness within him that seemed to run, consistent, through his veins the whole course of his life. And he carried this unhappiness with him even in the most stable of times- even during his brightest days, it was there at his ankles, dragging him down.

I remember him telling me once; "Life is sorrow. And pain is inevitable, in any life, no matter what you do to try and change it. Nothing precious ever lasts." This was in the final few weeks before his daughter was born- soon after the onset of Braska's peacetime-, and the change in him was evident from his face alone. He had gained some weight, but his cheeks were gaunt- when it came to food, he either complained he was feeling sick, or ate only what his cravings told him to, and solidly resisted my attempts to get him to eat healthily. His skin was pale and waxy, and his hair-, which would normally have been fixed in the traditional style preferred by some Guado royalty-, hung down over his shoulders, limp, in matted blue coils rather than separate strands.

I didn't know how to console him, or what to answer to that, so I stayed silent, standing beside his bed and idly mixing some potion or other. I was supposed to be encouraging him to exercise, but after the events of the week before, coupled with the young man's apparent exhaustion, I did not think that it would achieve anything.

Sitting up in his bed with his arms around his knees, he continued. "Haven't you ever thought that living might not be worth it? We spend years and years clinging to every shred of happiness that passes by, only to have it whisked away again at the first opportunity. We struggle all our lives, and for what? The only people in this Yevon-forsaken city who are even content are the ones floating around on the farplane." If he had looked up at me on that point he would have seen my hands stop, momentarily, mid-stir, but he did not. "Haven't you ever thought that we all might be better off dead?"

"Seymour," I said. "What is happening to you is no doubt frightening. I know you may feel alone and terrified during all this, but it is important to remember that it will be over soon. You'll probably start to feel better when your body recovers from the trauma. Who knows how your hormones are affecting you right now? It might be that you're only thinking this because the changes taking place -"

"I'm not talking about that," he replied sharply. "I'm talking about everything. People dying. People leaving and never coming back." Thoughts of that nameless pilgrim on the road flooded back to me- I banished them quickly. (Until the night Darra was born, I thought then I would never know who the baby's father was, and had told myself that it was pointless to think about the matter any more.) "Nothing's permanent, Heba. Sin is sleeping now, and we have peace, but what does that matter in the long run? It lives, and it will live to kill again. Give it two or three years, and people will be dying just like before. Nothing is forever.

"Or did you think it was, woman? I bet when you were small you thought your mother would never die- but she did, just like mine did. And I bet you thought that servant woman would stay here, didn't you? Admit it. It wasn't worth the sorrow of having her leave-"

"Seymour." His words stung a little, but I had to remind myself that he was only saying it because he needed someone to lash out at. I felt sorry for him, to an extent; even if she has never experienced it herself, a woman knows the pain of childbirth and the sickness of pregnancy. I could imagine what he was going through, and I tried to be sympathetic.

"I wish there were some way I could console you. I can't pretend I know what it's like, but I've seen wom-"

Seymour gave me a look.

"- I've seen people go through this before," I said diplomatically. "Just remember, it will be over soon." That was a lie- we both knew that there was a high probability Seymour wouldn't survive the birth unscathed, but I did not feel reminding him of that then would be the best course of action.

"And… you never know. Perhaps the Final Summoning was enough, this time." Finishing the mixture, I poured it into a glazed clay cup for him, knowing in advance that he would refuse to drink it. "We don't know for sure that Sin will come back."

"Oh, it will." There was an edge of certainty in his voice that almost made me shiver; something in there that was not simply pessimism, but an actual knowing. For not the first time in those several months I found myself wishing that I did not have to spend so much time with him. The things he said unnerved me, and, near the end of his term especially, he had become somewhat stir-crazy due to not being allowed out.

If only his mother had been there…guests were forbidden, for obvious reasons, but even if he had been allowed to see people, he would probably have had nobody else but me. And yet he could not even help but try to push me away. I cannot pretend that he and I formed any sort of bond while I was looking after him, but one thing is certain- I knew him better than any of his remaining relatives. Better than Jyscal.

Though Seymour's father was continually doing his best to ensure that the whole matter remained a secret, not once in all that time did he visit his son. Given his reaction when he found out about it, I was not at all surprised...


	8. Chapter 8

Jyscal was a kind man, but power corrupted him. Not in the way that it corrupts most leaders of state that fall, gradually, into disrepute, but in a subtle, more underhand way. It made him rot  _outwards_  from within, like a fungus that gradually eats away at the innards of an old oak. His intentions remained benevolent towards the end; that he and his family should remain safe, despite their position- but fear and paranoia had twisted his perceptions so much that the only way he could do this was to shut himself out from them, one by one. First Anima bore the brunt of his detachment, then Seymour. By the time his hybrid son was eighteen, he had lost all ability to show compassion. The love he had for him lay locked too deep inside to retrieve.

It did not help that Jyscal was less-than-approving of his son's likely 'orientation'. The young servant boy, whom we had caught Seymour in bed with several years before, had disappeared promptly afterwards, and though I did not believe that Jyscal would stoop to the level of harming the youth, I have not heard of him since. He may have been more afraid of starting a scandal, and thus harming the family's reputation, than his son actually being homosexual, but still, as with all nobles of his line, he did place that obligatory pressure on Seymour to marry and produce an heir.

The first thing he asked- after, of course, telling me I was absolutely mad and that he was going to make sure I never worked in Guadosalam again; after, of course, I had managed to make him believe me- the first thing he asked was, ''Who did this to you? ''

Picture the scene in your head, as I am doing so now; Seymour, sitting on his bed, with his robes (they hung looser on him then) hanging off his pale shoulders but pulled decidedly shut across his stomach with one hand. The tattoos on his chest and abdomen are partially covered by the fabric, partially stretched where he has begun to 'show'. Beside me (or beside you) is a Guado doctor, whose name escapes me, but he has a messy beard and glassy eyes, and spent a lot of time afterwards telling me about his two young daughters.

The doctor smells like some sort of sharp-flavoured herb, the essence of which permeates the room, which is oddly cool and airy considering that we are underground on one of the first few sweltering days of the early summer. The window, which faces out onto a dank, silent courtyard, has just been hastily shut by Seymour's father, afraid that somebody out there might hear.

Jyscal, for his part, is livid, and his anger is being made worse by Seymour's defiant silence. The expression on his face suggests that he is doing this on purpose. You should not put this past Seymour- when he was younger, especially, he had a clear facetious streak, and though he appeared charming in the public eye, he could be absolutely outrageous in his treatment of his father and his servants.

''Who is… who  _did_  this to you, Seymour? '' repeats Jyscal, and Seymour crosses his arms over his stomach.

''Would it make things difficult if I told you I didn't know? '' he replies, looking oddly dignified for a pregnant eighteen-year-old man with blue hair.

''How can you  _not know_? Do you mean to tell me you… you…'' Jyscal's voice peters out exasperatedly. ''Seymour, I don't think you quite understand. This is no laughing matter. You could become seriously ill. That isn't normal! You're  _pregnant_ , for Yevon's sake, and I demand to know who the father is! ''

''Does it really matter? '' his son says, offhand, and rests his chin on the palm of his hand, one finger curling upwards over his pale, veined cheek (and this is the part that I didn't tell Darra), ''I'm going to get rid of it, anyway. And I don't think paternity will be all that important when it's a lump of meat in a dustbin somewhere. ''

''We've already discussed this, sire, '' interjects the sharp-smelling doctor. ''It wouldn't be wise to attempt a termination- not wise at all. Especially at this stage, and  _especially_ given your- circumstances. We have no idea whether this operation will kill you, or even where on earth to start looking for the child. I'm afraid your condition is too rare for us to know very much about it. ''

''Exactly who do you think you are, doctor? I am not just the son of a Maester; I am a diplomat, and a mage-in-training, and I will  _not_  allow  _this_  to interfere with my career as either one. '' Seymour was very good at denying things to himself. I don't believe he was actually prepared to accept the risk of dying under anaesthetic; just that he refused to let himself think about that possibility. ''It would be better for myself and the reputation of my family if I took a chance with the operation, rather than going to the expense of trying to cover this up for several months. ''

''Seymour. If you do this, you are more likely to die than survive. '' Jyscal is firm, though slightly inaccurate; Seymour was more likely to die than survive anyway, though the odds were better if he left the child well alone. ''You're my son- my only heir. You have a responsibility…''

''So what are you going to say when people see me like this? That I've put on weight? Are you going to have me hide in the mansion for sixteen weeks,  _father_? What exactly do you think everybody is going to say? ''

Even in his younger years, the boy was shrewd, and fiercely manipulative. He often knew just how to appeal to what people wanted- which proved itself especially useful later on, in his political career and later in persuading Summoner Yuna to marry him. And he was doing that now, with his father. Seymour knew how paranoid Jyscal could be. I have no doubt that he was imagining, at that point, exactly what was going through the old Maester's head. Conspiracies, gossip, plans to overthrow his power… the very things that haunted the nightmares of a nervous leader, no doubt.

Jyscal relented.

It may seem, the way I tell this story, as if the man did not love his son. He did not visit Seymour whilst he was 'incarcerated', for want of a better word- nor did he show very much compassion towards him, even when he was clearly in pain. But the next thing he said convinced me once and for all that he really did love his son.

Bear in mind that Jyscal was not an irrational man. At the best of times, he was wise and benevolent, more like a communal father than a leader. Though some factions- and I hesitate to name any, because they are probably already obvious- did not consider themselves above 'strategic executions' at that time, Jyscal did.

And what he said was: ''If my son dies underneath your knife, doctor, I will kill you. ''

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

"You were going to get rid of me?"

The girl didn't seem as upset by this as I had thought she would be. Still, I felt guilty telling her, all the same. I thought of putting a hand out to touch hers, but decided against it. Neither of us would have benefited from it. Seymour, too, had been self-conscious of his hands when he was younger; up until he was about sixteen or seventeen, he had a habit of pulling his sleeves as far over his wrists as they would go.

"That was the initial plan," I admitted. "But… things change. You're going to have to excuse me. I've never told anybody this before- I have a fair amount of explaining to do before I get to the point. Please, listen.

-x-

I was opposed to the idea from the very start. So much so, in fact, that I came close to leaving a few times. I could not understand why the doctors did not listen to me. At least I had what my mother had told me, at least I knew that this could kill him. But some of them had never even heard of this before, such was the secrecy surrounding the young noble's condition. Only Orfeo, the over-talkative doctor who had examined Seymour before, had any idea of what was going on- but the operation had been his idea to begin with. Evidently, he was not as well-informed as I was.

Many times over the next few days I tried to protest, but in my youthful arrogance I had forgotten two things. I was human, and I was a woman, and even then, at a time where our cultures were beginning to accept each other, I did not have a voice.

My salvation came only moments before the procedure was due to start.

We could not risk taking Seymour outside, for obvious reasons. Instead, we had employed two junior surgeons, both Guado, both sworn to secrecy on pain of excommunication, as well as Dr Orfeo, who was working under the… slightly more ominous threat of a horrible death. They were to work in a cleaned-out corner of the family quarters; what used to be Anima's room, to be precise. I, having finally given up on protesting, was sitting alone in my room, willing the time to pass more quickly; willing the nervousness and the pain within me to subside.

I could not hear what was happening from where I was, but I could imagine it. Now, the young man my mother and I had been looking after for the best part of my life was lying, under a heavy anaesthetic, on a stripped-down mattress in his dead mother's room; now mouths and noses were being covered with sterilising cloth, now one of the doctors was slipping a pair of surgical gloves on over his gnarled fingers, now he was taking up the scalpel and-

It sent shards of pain deep into the curve of my stomach, as if it were my skin that the blade was digging into, and I were fully awake. But the very second that I imagined that slick silver penetrating his flesh, my door swung rudely open. The very same man that I had imagined slicing into the fold beneath Seymour's stomach stood in my doorway, his hand resting tentatively on the knob.

"Orfeo wants you to know that we're not going to go ahead with it," he said, and shrunk back. I did not even bother to reprimand him for not knocking; within moments, I was at the door to Anima's room. Tromell, who was already there, put his hand on my shoulder, holding me back.

He still served Jyscal's family then, but he was different- younger, and clean-shaven, with only the subtlest lines around his pale green eyes to indicate the passing of age. He was as astute as he had always been, but back then he was also more assertive. Perhaps working at Seymour's side wore him down somewhat. I don't know. We didn't talk often. After my mother died, as may be obvious, I kept to myself. (With one exception, but I will come to that later.)

"Young Seymour is still asleep. He does not yet know what has happened." He glanced over to the door, as if able to see the eighteen-year-old through it. "It would probably be wise for you to stay with him until he wakes up, and tell him."

"I will. What made Jyscal change his mind?" I asked.

"… we've come up with an alternative arrangement," replied Tromell, who suddenly seemed in a rush to get away. I let him go.

I was too dizzy with relief to notice, then, that he had not told me what the alternative arrangement was. The first hint I had that anything might be wrong was when, about ten minutes later, while I was sitting beside the still-sleeping Seymour, a servant woman named Riana pushed open the door, and stared at me with wide, startled eyes.

-x-

"Before I go on," I told Darra, "I must explain about Riana and I. We were lovers. What happened with your- your father split us up. But please don't misunderstand me; I don't hold it against you. It's over now. The only reason I'm telling you this is that it has something to do with what happened next."

Seymour's daughter frowned at me.

"I thought you said that people disapproved of… that kind of thing," she said. I nodded.

"We did our best to make sure that nobody else knew. Several people must have suspected, I'm sure, but as far as I knew, neither Jyscal nor any of his advisors had any inkling that the two of us were together. I think Seymour may have guessed, but then, he was always very… astute."

Darra stiffened a little, as if unsure whether to take that as a personal compliment. I could see then the same spark of awareness in her eyes that I'd seen in his long ago. This girl was coldly intelligent, I realised, though she lacked the smooth charm that Seymour had managed to cultivate.

"Your father was clever- he had a knack for appealing to what people most wanted," I continued. "It's how he gained their approval, and how he became successful. If you did not relent to him one way, he would simply find another way to get through to you.

"What he hated most of all was not being in control."

-x-

Riana was a petite, curvy girl, shorter than average and strikingly pretty. Her face was oval-shaped and slim against the head-dress she usually wore, which underplayed the pleasant stockiness of her body. She may have been marginally overweight, but it did not show on her cheeks. It may have been this that led Tromell and Jyscal to choose her, or it may have just been the fact that she came from a good family and was on hand at the time. Either way, the poor girl could not have helped it.

I did not have time to follow her when she turned on her heel and left the room again, leaving as quickly as she had come. All I could do was call out to her, and ask her if anything was wrong, but she did not reply. I couldn't leave Seymour lying there, as he might wake up at any time, so I just sat there and tried not to think about it.

I watched the young half-guado for a while, his slender chest rising and falling beneath the blanket that somebody had draped over his body before I came. His face was relaxed. His eyelids, traced across with the indented marks that were typical of his heritage, were benignly closed, and his hair was tied back in a loose braid. I remembered how my mother used to plait it like that, when he was little. I don't think Anima ever did.

What they say about sleeping faces is not true. Aside from his eyes being closed, Seymour did not look any more innocent than when he was awake. The undercurrent of worry and hurt was still there; his eyebrows were creased slightly, frowning, although the rest of his face was calm and neutral. I had seen this face develop and change over the years, sculpt itself out of childhood and into painful adolescence, twist itself into tears and- very occasionally now- smile. I had seen this man grow up, and yet he was only a few years my junior. Thinking this made me feel older than I was.

I ended up falling asleep too, despite the knot of worry that had managed to root itself in the pit of my stomach. It must have been at least an hour later when I awoke to the sound of the blankets stirring- the flicker of Seymour's eyelids told me that he was slowly drifting awake, although he did not yet know that the operation hadn't gone ahead.

I put my hand on his.

His fingers clenched, then unwound under my touch. He muttered something; the remnants of a dream. Tentatively, I spoke his name.

"Mm still alive," he murmured, and reached down with the other hand to touch his stomach. I took hold of his wrist.

"We didn't go ahead with the operation. I'm sorry," I told him. Instantly his arm tensed underneath mine, bewildered, and he squeezed his eyes shut before opening them again, obviously struggling to wake up faster.

" _What_?"

"I don't know what happened, Seymour, but Maester Jyscal told the doctors to leave. I wish I could tell you more."

Wrenching his arm away from mine, he rested his hand against his still-swollen stomach, and moaned. "What in Spira does that mad old bastard think he is doing?" he said. His voice still sounded a little drugged. Hurriedly, I tried to stop him from getting up, but he pushed me out of the way and started to scramble his way out of the blankets, only stopping when he remembered that he wasn't actually wearing anything underneath them. Wrapping them around himself with as much dignity as he could muster, the young man sat up and glared at me.

"Get me some clothes. Now."

Obediently I rang for a servant (I thought it best not to leave Seymour on his own, for a variety of reasons), but before anyone else had even had time to respond, Jyscal and a man I had never seen before arrived at the door. They told me, in no uncertain terms, that it would be best if I left then. As I hurried down the corridor back to the servants' quarters, I could hear raised voices- one of them Seymour's- but I had more important things to think about at the time.

Riana was just where I suspected where she would be; in the kitchen, where she worked when she was not managing the house's laundry- in guado culture, servants do not generally have one specific function. When she saw me she dropped two plates and smashed them. Two kitchen-hands looked round, then, as if by some unspoken agreement, hurried out by another door. What worried me was the fact that she did not appear to notice.

"Riana, did you want something earlier on? You just left without saying anything," I started, my pulse quickening with repressed worry. Her soft lips parted a little, then screwed shut in a fierce frown. She didn't speak for a while, but just stared at me, her eyes only a few degrees from tears, looking like she was still trying to find the words to say what she wanted.

"How  _could_  you?" she spat finally. "After all we have been through… I can't  _believe_  you would throw it all away for that- that  _freak_!"

"What?" I stepped closer to her- she moved back even further. Puzzled, I reached a hand out towards her but she shrunk away from it as if it were a weapon.

"You lying slut! I should have known, when you started spending all that time with him- I should have known you humans were all the same, I should have known…"

Tears started streaming down her face. My instinctive urge was to wipe them away, but I had to hold myself back. I knew if I tried to touch her now, she would not welcome it.

"Riana, I don't understand. I haven't been doing anything behind your back- you  _know_  I wouldn't. What are you talking about? What's going on?"

"Ask  _Seymour_ , Heba!" she hissed. "If you still can't get it into your thick head, ask  _him_!" Then she turned on her heel and stormed out, crunching bits of porcelain beneath her shoes.

Tromell's words flashed again through my mind. 'An alternative arrangement,' I heard him say again. Anger swelled within me, and my vision reddened. Realisation dawned within me like a slowly uncoiling snake.

Enraged, I fled out of the kitchens and through the living room, ignoring the precarious bowl of fruit I managed to knock over in the process. Up on the landing, the guard outside Jyscal's bedroom started as I slammed through the doors, and I could hear the soft scrape of a weapon being drawn, but I did not care. Tromell was there, at the door, and although he started at the noise he did not seem surprised that I had come to see him. Rather, he had been expecting me.

"Ah, Miss Heba. There you are. I have been looking for you-"

I interrupted him mid-sentence. "If you don't tell me what's going on right now, Tromell of Guado, I'm going to leave."

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that." His tone was apologetic, but firm. He took hold of my arm. I shrugged it off.

"What are you going to do? Lock me away? You know Jyscal's advisors want me out anyway, why are you trying to stop me? Do you think I'd tell everybody what's going on? Is that it?"

"Heba!" He took my arm again. "You're forgetting that you have little power here. You're not one of us. Essentially, you're alone in a city where some people still don't want you to be here. It doesn't matter who your mother was, or how long you've lived with our family- you are, and always will be, an outsider. If you were to be harmed…"

"Are you threatening me?"

"No. I'm helping you. Come with me, Heba. We need to talk."

I had no choice but to go with him, half-expecting to meet a group of assassins on the way. But surprisingly, he led me into his study, which stood just beside the stairs that led to Seymour's room, and sat down at his desk.

Like many of the rooms in the mansion, it was lined with a thick layer of interlaced roots; the house had been carved out of the ground so long ago that where they were cut had since healed up, and I could see new coils sprouting occasionally from the ends. Unless you actually lived in Guadosalam, you would not have realised that the great network of vines out of which our city is carved was a living thing, and still growing, albeit very slowly. The roots would not have to be cut back for another twenty years; it took at least fifty for a new shoot to become an annoyance.

Tromell's carpet was richly woven, embroidered with patterns which I knew to be pictures of pyreflies (the farplane had long been an inspiration for much of his culture's art); the furniture in the room, which was cheap and plain, looked slightly strange sitting on top of it. Hanging just to the right beside his chair was a brightly-coloured musical instrument that looked like a harp, only a little smaller, with strings that shone as if they had been fashioned from metal instead of gut.

Did Tromell play it? At the time, I couldn't have cared less. Arms crossed, I stood opposite him, my gaze boring into his. I felt close to collapse, and he seemed infuriatingly calm, although I could see that my anger was unnerving him a little. I was glad for that.

"Ever since Seymour was… taken ill, people have been saying things," Tromell said. That was not surprising. Ever since I had discovered the 'tumour' several weeks ago, he had been confined to the house, and it was not usual for a Maester's son to remain unseen for so long. Besides, everybody knew that we had sent for a doctor- rumours were bound to be spreading, especially given Seymour's turbulent childhood. We had thought his health problems were a thing of the past. Evidently, we were wrong.

"They say that Guadosalam is going to lose its heir," continued the man in that steady, hollow voice of his. "That Seymour's human blood has made him sickly and weak. That Jyscal should never have mixed with the humans or their church.

"Unfortunately, that is not our only concern. There have also been rumours of another nature spreading through our city- rumours of a child to be born among the mansion's inhabitants. It would be incredibly dangerous for all involved if the truth were to be known," he added, eyeing me pointedly. I narrowed my eyes.

Tromell let out a short sigh.

"You may or may not have heard that she is involved by now," he said, "But the servant girl Riana… she comes from a good family, Heba. And she is already a little –forgive me, but she is already a little rotund. Given that, it would be possible for her to be carrying a child for several months before she began to show. And it would be equally possible that young Seymour would have fallen for her…"

I knew where this was heading. I could barely stop my voice from shaking when I spoke. "You're going to tell everybody that Riana is pregnant."

He nodded slowly. "She has agreed to wear padding around her stomach from now on. Tomorrow, the people of Guadosalam shall be told- and that, when the Maester's son recovers from his serious but not fatal bout of illness, the two of them shall be married. It will be a joyous occasion for all," he added, a little optimistically, I thought.

"Riana… knows about Seymour?" I asked. Inhaling deeply, Tromell shook his head.

"…no. We had to manipulate the truth a ways, Heba. I am sure you will understand that secrecy is absolutely imperative when it comes to the young master's condition, and I know you will continue to serve our family in-"

He broke off and stared at me. I must have looked ready to tear him limb from limb then, because he cleared his throat and carried on; "To be blunt, we told Riana that, as the people would not accept an heir whose Guado blood was so diluted… she was… 'covering' for you."

" _Covering for me_?"

"Yes. Well. Erm." The guado looked at me for a moment, probably feeling rather awkward. Then he got up, and headed over to a chair at the corner of his room, picking up the plush red pillow adorning it and clutching it to his chest with both hands, like a shield.

"You are going to need one of these," he said.


	10. Chapter 10

Thus began my official incarceration in the home of Jyscal Guado. Under the premise that both Seymour and I were in 'quarantine', the two of us were kept in adjoining apartments, forbidden to speak or have contact with anybody except the few who knew the truth. This meant, of course, that it was usually either Tromell or Riana who brought us our food. If it was Tromell, we were in luck. Despite the numerous grudges we both held against him, he was not unpleasant to talk to, when we finally decided to start talking to him again.

Usually, it was Riana.

I will not lie. It hurt to see her. It hurt even more to know that she hated me. As far as she knew, I had not only betrayed her trust, but I had also condemned her to a life of virtual enslavement- chained in marriage to a man she neither loved nor knew. Whether the child lived or died did not matter, because as far as the people were concerned, the union had already been consummated. All that remained now was the ceremony. Riana was doomed.

But what could I have done? I was the sole link keeping this whole elaborate lie together. Destroy it, and I would lose my livelihood, my home, and possibly my life. However many times I dreamt of finding some way to slip a message to her and escape in the dead of night, it did not change the fact that I was as powerless in this situation as Seymour was. I had to accept this. I had no other choice.

Somehow, I managed to keep on going. It was not easy. Every time I heard that knock on my door, and I checked the padding on my stomach and tied a cloth around my mouth to stop the imaginary infection from spreading through the house, my hands would shake, and I would pray to whomever was listening for Tromell to be there when I opened the door. The first time Riana came to see me, she shoved the tray into my hands, looked down at the lump beneath my dress (which was actually a pillow) and burst out crying.

I shut the door on her. What could I have done?

Usually, when it was Riana, I would bring Seymour's food in to him. He was not allowed to see her, for obvious reasons. I am not sure whether he was really interested. Although he, too, was facing the prospect of marriage to a woman he barely knew, he never told me whether he really objected to the idea or not. When I asked him what he thought- and I only did it once- he said, ''She comes from a good family, '' and shrugged. That was all.

Over the weeks and months that followed I spent most of my time either alone or with him. I saw the gradual changes in his body and mood; every time I examined the young man, (him with his head turned away from his swollen stomach as if in disgust), I noted in my head that the ritualistic tattoos across it were becoming a little more diluted each time. And, each time, I noted that his wrists when I took his pulse were just that little bit more slender. It was almost as if you were sapping the life from him as you grew, Darra, although you must remember this: both you and he were strong enough to survive.

Understandably, things were awkward between us. Seymour spent most of his time in his room reading and sleeping, when I was not trying to get him to exercise or open the window. I, too, read a great amount, although I tried regularly to coax the half-Guado into some sort of conversation (he had, after all, only the doctors and Tromell to talk to). However, Seymour was very much at the mercy of his mood swings. Although he could be civil and even pleasant when he wanted to, there were many occasions on which I had things screamed or thrown at me, and many more occasions on which I was simply ignored completely.

Sometimes, especially during his first few weeks with me, he would refuse to talk altogether. Within a month of my being detained, Tromell and I had endured a week-long silence due to us having removed every wire coat-hanger from the young man's wardrobe. In fact, we did not speak properly until thirty days after I had first found him; the day of Lord Braska's calm.

Seymour had slept through the whole day. It wasn't until the evening that I heard him stir and wake up. When I came in, he was standing by the window, with the blind half-pulled down, as always. The air was thick with incense and music and laughter- even here, in Guadosalam, people were celebrating the defeat of Sin. Over his shoulder, I could just about see two young women (was one of them Riana?) embrace and pull away from each other in the courtyard below, then link hands childishly and rush back in the direction of the main streets. I could see the dark smudges beneath the boy's eyes as he turned to face me.

''What's going on? ''

''Summoner Braska has brought the calm, '' I said quietly. ''He defeated Sin early this morning. ''

Seymour looked down, and for a moment, I could see the sadness in his expression. Envy, perhaps, at not being able to go outside and join in the celebrations. The last time he had seen the beginning of a calm, he and his mother had been in virtual exile on Baaj island. Was he remembering that, then? Looking back, he may have been thinking about something else entirely. But the emotion was there, all the same- there until the very moment he forced it down again, lifted his head up, looked me in the eye.

''I see. And what of his guardians? Sir Jecht and Sir Auron? ''

''Tromell didn't tell me. I don't think anybody knows yet. '' I paused, and remembered something. ''I thought he came here with three Guardians. There was a young man you spent some time with-''

''You mean Isaaru? No. Not a guardian. '' Seymour turned back to the window. ''A summoner-in-training. He was simply travelling with them on his way to the farplane; I believe Lord Braska used to be his mentor, at some point. Although I may have been mistaken…'' His voice sounded suddenly weary; quieter than it usually was, and, in a strange way, older.

''I am tired. You will wake me up if you hear anything of Braska's guardians. I spoke briefly with the two of them whilst they were visiting Macalania temple. I know it is probably… of minor importance, given… the circumstances, but… I am keen to know that they are safe. ''

Something in his tone told me that it was best to leave. I bid him quietly goodnight and walked out, but as I turned around to shut the door, I saw him- for the first and last time in all those months- resting his hand against the curve of his stomach. He was staring at the window as if there was a distance to look out into. It has always made me wonder.


	11. Chapter 11

"So he never told you who my… father was."

I could hear the break in Darra's voice as she said the word, turning it over in her mouth with a hint of disgust. She was still trying to come to terms with it, I realised, and I found myself wishing that I were more equipped to deal with this- to comfort her. She was Seymour's daughter, after all. I would have been no more help to her than I had been to him, all those years ago.

"No. I'm sorry," I said.

After all, it was not a lie. He never told me. But that does not mean I didn't know.

-x-

It was about that time, around the start of Lord Braska's calm, that Seymour began to act strangely. I would come in to find him lying, completely flat and completely still, on his bed, or even on the floor. He was not sleeping. Nor was he practising the breathing exercises I had tried again and again to teach him (he refused point-blank to learn at first, but later on, he would relent).

Perhaps he was simply conserving his strength. But I could not help but wonder whether he was imagining what it was like to be dead.

"The final summoning. I think I have started to realise why my mother wanted me to perform it," he told me once, almost completely out of the blue.

"Oh?" I asked, looking up at him. That fold in the flesh, like the trench of a caesarian scar, was starting to change- it looked sore, and slightly odd against the human characteristics of his body. Sore, but his development was still behind. It would be a difficult labour. It worried me a little. I was not fully listening.

"She wanted the best for me," he said. "As a child, I was foolish. I did not realise that the best for me would be to… not grow up at all. Perhaps it would have been better if she had sacrificed me while I was still in the womb."

"…Is this about the child, Seymour?"

He ignored me. "All guado children understand death. We live beside the farplane, after all. But what we are not taught- what we  _should_  be teaching our children- is that the life before it is merely an option. What better fate would there be than to die at birth, completely innocent, blissfully unaware of Sin…"

"I think I might have to reduce your dosage."

" _Don't_ \- patronise me." The young man sat up abruptly, shuffling back. "I know perfectly well what I am saying. If anything, it is  _you_ who are deluded. Death is preferable to pain." He tugged his robe on and pulled it tight around himself, suddenly annoyed. "Now I'm tired. Leave me alone."

Before I left, I went through his drawers and took out anything that was remotely sharp or breakable, bundling them all up in the only two sheets I found that were thin and pliable enough to pose any threat. Later on, I had Tromell remove the light fitting from his ceiling. I expected Seymour to be angry with me, but to my surprise, he was not.

"What's the point?" he said, instead, and laughed.

(Later on- much later, as he lay screaming before me, he would beg for me to kill him. Again, I would refuse him. But for a moment I would wonder whether it would not be kinder to hold his hand while Dr Orfeo slit his throat, and simply slip the child from his lifeless body. I did not tell Darra this either.)

-x-

Two months after her engagement to Seymour, Riana went missing.

Tromell woke me up at around midnight, to the sound of muted footsteps and desperate whispering in the corridor. It did not take me long to realise why the other servants had not been woken. Unwilling to raise the alarm, we barred the doors until everybody had woken up and we could move around the house more inconspicuously; we sent guards out in the dead of night in the hope they would find her. Secretly, I prayed that they would not.

By midday, word had been sent out that an illness- presumably different to the one Seymour and I were supposed to have been struck down with- had made Riana delirious, causing her to wander out during the night. If anybody found her, they were to bring her back to us immediately, and using force if necessary. After all, said Jyscal, we are all afraid for her safety.

They did not have to worry. Four days later she had been found dead at the base of Mount Gagazet.

As soon as the child was born, I vowed, I would leave.


	12. Chapter 12

"They had her  _killed_?"

Darra's tone was not so much one of disgust as morbid curiosity. It disturbed me a little. For a moment, she reminded me of Seymour, and the way he had started to sound in those last few weeks I spent with him. Though I can never claim to know what he was thinking, I am certain that if he was not already insane by that time, the birth of his daughter pushed him over the brink.

x-

Despite what the story I told Darra might have implied, my time was not spent exclusively in Guadosalam. I tended to travellers, paid visits to the adjoining villages; most of my work was as a midwife, although I was also trained as a nurse. Understandably, I have delivered many children in my time. Not all of them have survived. Some, I have pulled living from the dead bodies of their mothers; others, from the lithe and vulnerable flesh of women as young as fourteen.

Seymour was by far not the youngest of my patients. Nor- although he did drift uncomfortably close to death during those final hours- was he even the most endangered. And yet he is the one I will always remember; even after all these years, his cries are as vivid in my mind as they had been on the day his daughter was born.

I am not sure if I will ever be able to forget them.

Strange, too, how Riana's memory pales in comparison to his.

x-

"I'm… not sure," I said. By now, the sky had darkened outside, and I got up to put the light on. The room was still warm, although Darra, through all her thick clothes, didn't seem too bothered.

"On the night you were born, Dr Orfeo told me something that… led me to believe her death wasn't an accident. But I doubt Jyscal would have had her killed," I told her, as I sat back down again. "Whatever happened was beyond his jurisdiction. As I said, he was a good man. His intentions, at least, were honourable."

x-

He offered his deepest condolences to the young woman's family, even going so far as to volunteer a large sum of money in compensation. I never found out whether or not they accepted it. Though I saw them once before I left that place, I never spoke to them again. Our first and last meeting together did not exactly go smoothly.

I didn't even know they were in the building until I passed through the dining room on my way out and saw them. No longer under 'quarantine'; there was, after all, no reason for me to pretend to be pregnant anymore, I was free to come and go as I needed, though Seymour was still my first priority. As for what was going to happen to the baby (and mother) now, it had not yet been discussed. As far as everybody else was concerned, the child had died with Riana. Only Jyscal, Tromell, several frightened doctors and myself knew that the child hadn't even been in the same place as her. And, of course, Jyscal's eighteen-year-old pregnant son.

As soon as I pushed the door open, I was uncomfortably aware that all heads in the room had turned towards me. Faced with the moist eyes of my late lover's parents and sister, I could not help but feel like an intruder. Riana's death was still on my conscience. I knew I could not have prevented it, but although I could hide my grief I could not stop it from clouding my innermost thoughts.

I had been intending to apologise to the group and slip past quietly, but Tromell- anticipating their confusion on seeing a human woman pass through the manor- had already started to introduce me. Somewhat embarrassed, he glanced from Riana's family to Lord Jyscal to myself, and cleared his throat.

"Mrs Faren…" he began.

Steeling myself, I stepped up to Lord Jyscal's side and bowed, first to him, then to his visitors. "Mrs Faren; Mr Daza; Miss Ismene," I said, addressing them steadily. "My deepest sympathies."

The couple muttered in acknowledgement and looked down. Only the younger woman, whom I assumed to be Riana's sister, retained eye contact with me, and there was something unsettling in her expression that I first took to be exhaustion or grief. As it turned out, I was wrong.

"And you are…?" she asked. Her voice was lower and huskier than Riana's had been. She was thinner, too, and her hair was an odd, almost reddish shade of auburn that I rarely saw among Guado women. She did not look like her sister. Still, her presence instilled a pang of sorrow within me that I found difficult to curb.

"Heba. I'm the resident… governess. I was taking care of your sister. She was a good woman," I added, in the hope my words would offer some kind of comfort.

What happened next surprised us all.

"You human  _bitch_!" she shrieked, and slapped me.

Stunned, I could only watch as Tromell and Jyscal tried to hold Ismene back; her mortified parents staring wide-eyed at us from behind her, my cheek stinging from the strike and where one of her sharp nails had caught the skin. Almost as soon as the slap sounded against my cheek had the others in the room moved to calm her, but she carried on screaming at me regardless, battering down all attempts to interrupt.

"And you didn't even have the decency to leave! Do you take me for some kind of fool? I shouldn't have listened when Riana told me not to intervene… I shouldn't have kept silent for so long!"

My blood ran cold. In all our time together, Riana had said little about her family. None of the manor's inhabitants, save perhaps Seymour, had any idea what was going on between us, and I had assumed the same of my girlfriend's family. Why would she tell them, anyway? The Guado were Yevonites too, now. They did not take kindly to women like us.

"It wasn't enough that you corrupted her," Ismene hissed, straining against the hands of the two men that held her. "You sick, lying bitch! It wasn't even enough that you turned my sister against men- you had to betray her for one as well! What right do you think you have to come here and defile our people? You don't belong! You never will!

"Seymour's governess? Don't patronise me; the man is eighteen years old. I know what you are. You're his  _mistress_. And-" Her voice quavered; she gestured madly to my still-level stomach. "- to think… you even had the audacity to kill his child!"

x-

"You may start to understand, now, why I left Guadosalam when I did. I can't pretend it wouldn't have been better for me to stay there- perhaps even better for you as well, although I thought I was acting in your best interests at the time. After all, it was my home. But I would not have been accepted there anymore. My mother was long dead; I had outstayed my welcome."

My voice croaked on the last syllable and I fell silent- age and the warm night air had dried my throat. I took a sip of water, aware of Darra's eyes on me. She did not say anything for a while. I guessed she was thinking.

"If this is true," she asked finally, "Why haven't I heard about this before now? Even if nothing else, somebody might have mentioned Riana when my… when Seymour was married six years ago. I'm not saying I don't believe your story, but…"

"It was a long time ago," I replied, after the silence. "Forgive me if there are things that don't make sense. I am trying, Darra, to tell you as much about your past as I can, but even I can't answer everything. Mine is only one side of the story.

"After Seymour recovered and joined in service to the temples, Riana's name faded into obscurity. Due to the circumstances surrounding her death- the public was told that she had gone temporarily insane, a precarious subject if there ever were one- people did not tend to talk about it very much."

"What about you and Seymour? Surely people talked about  _that_. What did you say?"

I looked at the window.

"I told them I had miscarried. What else could I have said?"

x-

It is not my place here to speculate why or even how Riana's sister knew about us. I had thought there had been no need to tell anybody else; evidently I was wrong. Judging from the expressions of the older couple, though, I suspected that they'd had no idea of this before now. The two were mortified; Riana's mother couldn't barely her eyes off me for the shock, her father couldn't even look at me. Ismene, too, was starting to look a little embarrassed- the hysteria was fading, and she no longer needed to be restrained, but her voice was still considerably venomous.

"I'm not surprised it died," she spat. "That kind of mongrel child isn't meant to live, anyway."

I wondered what Seymour would make of that. Jyscal, for his part, pretended not to notice the woman's  _faux pas_.

"Lady Ismene," he said, addressing her with unusual politeness, "It is clear you are upset. Perhaps the three of you should come back later to collect Riana's possessions."

Still flustered, Ismene gave a low bow. Her parents followed suit. Tromell started to diplomatically usher them out; Jyscal stopped them.

"One more small matter, my lady. I would be grateful if, outside this room, you were not so quick to reveal the shame of your own people."

His intentions, at least, were honourable.

x-

Ismene may not have said anything, but rumours circulated nonetheless. That old Guado arrogance seethed and resurfaced again; the community I had grown up amongst became my enemies. The next time I left the manor, to pay a visit to the Thunder Plains agency, people stopped talking and looked at me as I passed them in the tunnels. My Guado escort (in those days the fiends made it almost impossible to travel alone) stolidly refused to speak to me for the whole journey.

After that, I did not go out unless it was strictly necessary.

The night Riana's body was found I had stuffed all but my most essential belongings into bags and piled them up against the dresser, ready to leave the moment I was no longer needed. I did not tell Seymour. It wasn't that I had felt he would be particularly upset; simply that waking up to the sound of him being violently sick into the washstand had made me consider whether the young man did not have enough on his mind already. Eventually, though, whether it was by the view of my suitcases through a seldom-open door or one of Tromell's rare visits while I was away, he somehow got wind of the fact I was leaving.

True to form, he was not bothered. Too concerned with thinking about his own predicament- as well as a host of other, far more worrying notions which I would not even begin to understand until after his death- he gave the matter only a passing comment, and spoke as if I were a stranger.

"I hear you have threatened to leave."

"It wasn't a threat. It was a statement," I replied as I opened the small window above the foot of his bed, making sure that the blind was still down. It was too warm, and the ice gem in the corner of the room (Seymour's- not mine) was doing little to help today. By then, we were well into the summer. Even there, underground, the air had become hot and stale, the lush vines that encased our city smelling over-ripe and glutted like decaying fruit. I felt self-conscious. Guado do not sweat.

"I see," he said.

I sat down again and picked up my fan. Seymour went on.

"In some ways, I should imagine you and I are quite similar," he mused. "Both strangers in our own homes… consistently having to  _prove_  ourselves… I am quite aware that I, or at the very least, my-… situation is about as welcome in the manor as  _you_  are."

He looked at me. I didn't say anything.

"It will be difficult to redeem myself, after this. If, indeed, I even survive," he added matter-of-factly, his voice oddly quiet.

I fanned myself absent-mindedly, the cool air a welcome relief. His words, an antecedent to death if there ever was one, made me feel worried and a little sick, although having seen him survive this long had certainly made me more optimistic about the birth. "It sounds almost like you're doubting yourself," I replied.

"I don't doubt myself. I have plenty of other people who will do that for me."

I couldn't think of anything else to say. "Then, in that case, I am sure you'll make a good leader."

"I will not just be their leader," he said.

Who were 'they'? I assumed he was talking about the Guado people, at the time. Now I am not sure what to think.

"Oh?" I inquired.

His voice changed, then. I didn't look up, but I knew he was smiling.

"I will be their saviour."


	13. Chapter 13

You were born, Darra, on a stiflingly warm night in summer, the anniversary of your grandmother's death. Unusually, the closed skies of our underground city did not keep out the heat but seemed instead to trap it in, making it difficult to breathe.

It was not easy for your father. I knew he was afraid. He had been caged up in that room for several months. He did not know if he was going to leave it alive.

x-

It started late in the morning. I was away from him when it happened. I had not been out of the house for some time. Those last few claustrophobic weeks had left me desperate for a change of scenery, and I had started finding excuses to escape to other parts of the manor. It wasn't hard to get the other servants to leave me alone. Most of them avoided me, believing I was still 'contagious', or else, that I would bring shame to anybody I was seen with.

Under the pretence of talking to the kitchen staff (a shaky excuse because they didn't actually talk to me), I had left Seymour with Dr Orfeo and hidden myself away in what used to be Anima's quarters, enjoying the short respite from the young man's increasingly burdensome company. It may have been a mistake. By the time the older man had found me and brought me back, the boy was already struggling to withstand the pain.

Orfeo and I stayed with him until well into the night, when we were forced to have the two junior doctors fetched from their homes nearby. Rumours about our young patient's condition no doubt escalated the morning after- several people opened their doors to see what was going on, the hollow corridors of Guadosalam being a perfect medium for carrying echoes further than you wished them to go.

It was for this reason that we could not let him cry out. To do so would have awakened the suspicions of everyone around us; I knew, as well, that Seymour's pride prevented him from showing how much pain he was in, and he would have been humiliated had Jyscal or Tromell heard his screams. He endured it silently for eight hours before the agony finally became too much and I found myself clamping my hand over his mouth to stifle the sound. He sobbed like a child when I let go. Seymour was only four years younger than me, but four years ago I had been little more than a girl.

Due to the construction of their bodies, the second stage of labour- delivery- is usually far easier for a Guado woman than a human. For him, it was twice as difficult. The passage through which the child passed was malformed and raw; the entrance, which was supposed to form along the base of the stomach as a natural part of pregnancy, had not developed properly. That night, for the second time in my life, I saw the scalpel taken to his unprepared flesh. And, for the second time in my life, I had to look away.

The drugs did little to alleviate the pain. His mixed parentage meant he was resistant to most of the medicines we could give him, and magic would have been virtually useless. Still, the sedatives did prove useful eventually; by the time they made the incision the teenager neither knew nor cared where he was any more.

By then the doctors had taken over fully, and I was left to sit beside him, offering comfort I was no more qualified to give than he was to receive. I knew he was no longer coherent, because suddenly he gripped my hand and said; "Mother, you came back."

x-

Anima- or at least, Anima's body- had been dead for eight years. I didn't know whether I really looked like her. I couldn't recall her face, and I had never been close enough to her Aeon to see the portrait.

Although she had never technically died, Jyscal still performed the proper rites. With omissions, of course. There was no sending. She would never appear on the farplane, although I would see her son there countless times after he returned from Zanarkand. He was still a young boy, but with something vital missing this time, as if part of him had been encased with Anima in that statue at Baaj. Mother and child, frozen together in soul-time, nothing left walking but an empty shell.

x-

"Your mother's not here any more," I told him. In the distance I heard Dr Orfeo's voice rise in panic, and the teenager's body tensed beneath my palm. I put my other hand to his wrist; it was so thin my fingers could almost form a complete circle.

Agony sharpened the younger man's eyes for a moment, and it looked almost as if Seymour was thinking clearly again, but his gaze soon became hazy and unfocused once more, and he still did not know who I was.

"You've been gone a long time," he said. His breathing was heavy and laboured. "Don't leave now. Please?"

His hand was squeezing mine so tightly it was becoming hard to endure. Trying to ease my way out of his grip a little, I wrapped my hand around his wrist again. It seemed to calm him down, and then even though the pain must have been unbearable, and the air too hot and stinking of blood for breath, he turned his head and gave me a sweet, mad, trusting, childlike, utterly disturbing smile.

"I am going to die."

x-

Anima's arms, stripped thin by the sickness. Her hooded eyes; her refusal to eat. Her voice, steady as ever, heard with my mother's through a tattered curtain on her final night in Baaj.

_"You have no right to tell me what is best for my child!"_

_"He needs you, Anima. You don't have to do this. You still have time."_

_"What are a few weeks going to matter? You know why Jyscal sent us here. There are people out there who would harm my son for what he is, if they had the chance. I must give him the strength to protect himself, while I still can."_

x-

"You're going to be fine," I lied. "It won't be long now."

"Please look after it for me," he said, and it took me a moment to realise what he was talking about. "I don't... don't want..."

Seymour's voice trailed off. I think he had forgotten what he was going to say. Already his grip on my hand was tightening again; I could almost feel the pain in my own body, although I had never experienced it myself and never would. When he eventually came down from the spasm he closed his eyes and let his head roll back a little.

"You told me once - it is like falling asleep," he said quietly. "I'm not afraid. I only wish I could have - been of some use - like you..."

x-

_"And what makes you think depriving him of your memory will make him any stronger? Anima, he's going to hate you for making him do this!" My mother's words were harsh, but justified. Anima's response was unusually defiant._

_"He will thank me eventually. I'm giving him more power than most people know in their lifetimes."_

_"Do you really think that's worth it? Do you really think that's wise?"_

_"At least this way, my dying will help him! I cannot leave Seymour alone in the world. I have no other choice."_

That was the last time we saw her. After that, just as her son later on stepped forward to meet the darkness, she would surmount her fear of death by flinging herself into the void.

x-

"Lord Zaon... Yunalesca... I have failed you."

Empty bodies. Whispering. The stench of blood. I no longer understood what he was saying; I kept silent. "I want you to call it that," he said, "if it's a girl, I want you to call it that."

"Call it what?"

"Lesca..." he whispered. Then, as if by explanation, "I would have made you proud."

"I know," I lied.

"Heba?"

I looked up. Doctor Orfeo's face was grave. A child's cry cut through the thickness in the air. Giving the teenager's wrist one last squeeze, I went to leave, but the faintest tug on my hand stopped me.

"If it is a boy," Seymour said, and then a name, the father's name that I did not tell Darra but instead made lost to the crying of the baby.

I stood up. His hand slipped from mine with little resistance- by then he was too weak to even lift it- and I left his side for the last time. A bloodied bundle was pressed into my arms.

Wearily, Doctor Orfeo beckoned over one of the junior doctors. "Tell Jyscal the baby is dying, and his son may be in his last hours."

Beneath me, the baby cried, great, long, healthy squalls. I could only just hear Seymour's voice from behind me.

"Where is it?" he said quietly.

Orfeo spoke gently. "I'm sorry. It's stillborn."

"Don't lie. I can hear it crying. Let me-" and then his voice cut off abruptly, and I thought him dead. Dr Orfeo's hand pressed wordlessly at my shoulder; he led me towards the door that would lead to my room and out into the rest of the manor. The bundle quietened in my arms. I passed through the threshold then, with a child that was not mine- the sting of separation buzzing behind me still, like the snapping of a thousand tiny threads.


	14. Chapter 14

I saw him only once after that, passing through Luca about six months later. His father had just been ordained as a Maester; Seymour was due to return to the temples, and continue his training. They passed through the dock as I was boarding a ship, flanked by Guado warrior-monks. If they recognised me, they did not acknowledge it.

I suspect it was one of the first times Seymour had been out of the manor. The damage to his health was tremendous- even half a year later, his body was covered selfconsciously, in long hefty robes which buried the slimness of his arms.

And there was something in his eyes, too, that had changed- a cold, almost inhuman desire to succeed, as if the birth had emptied him of life and yet his body was determined to keep walking. It unnerved me a little. It made me think I should have given the baby back to him when he asked.

I couldn't look at his face for more than a moment. I still didn't want to remember it all. I'd walked from Guadosalam to the Moonflow before I realised my dress was drenched in blood underneath my robes. My state of shock did not subside for a long time afterwards. I stayed alone in my room for a long time; I avoided the temples. I stopped delivering children, for a while.

"I never found out how Orfeo convinced your grandfather you were dead," I told Darra. "Almost as soon as I had left the room I was rushed outside in a heavy cloak, with you hidden beneath the folds. Orfeo told me the Shoopuf owner would be waiting at the bank of the lake. My guard- one of the junior doctors- escorted me until he was within sight, then turned back.

"Your adoptive parents were already waiting there with the owner. To my surprise, I knew them; the woman had been a patient of mine for some time. She could not have children, but I was aware that she sorely wanted them. When I handed you over to her she did not ask where you were from. She just looked down at you and smiled."

I felt I should say something, so I told her the baby was called Lesca. I'm not sure why she decided to change it later on. It was probably for the best, anyway- or at the time, at least. She was already dead to Seymour.

Although deep down I know it was not safe for Darra… for Lesca to stay where she was born, I will always regret separating them. It feels as if I am partially responsible for everything that happened afterwards. But I can claim no more responsibility for Seymour's transgressions than I can for what Darra did when she left my home. External forces alone control our actions; as it is with everybody else, I had no choice. No choice at all.

And neither did Darra. I remember the way she looked when I finished telling her. Blank-eyed; her hands in her lap, loose. The desperate anxiety in her face had gone. She knew the truth, at least. Now came the question of whether she'd wanted to know.

"So that's why," she said tonelessly, more to herself than to me. It was the first time she'd spoken in a while. "Well. Thank you. Now I know."

She got up, intending to leave. I felt awkward.

"Are you going to be alright getting home?" I asked.

Darra didn't look at me. "There's a ship leaving for my home tomorrow morning. I'll stay in an agency tonight," she said.

"Your home? Where is that?"

"Thank you for your time, Heba. I should leave now. I need to collect my weapons from the mender before his shop closes."

"Your weapons?" I got up and opened the door for her. The air was still and hot, but at least it was cooler by night. Small lamp-lights from the other houses lit up the road outside, and the moon was bright in the sky. "Are you a soldier?"

The girl seemed to think about this for a moment. Something flickered in her eyes, something other than the moon or the glow of the village.

"Of a sort," she said finally, and there was an odd tone in her voice. "Although I always considered training as a Black Mage. Perhaps now I should."

"Perhaps," I agreed. "Nobody could say you don't have the background."

Darra gave me a secret little smile. "Like father, like daughter?" she suggested, with a lightness that unnerved me. "I suppose it's not too late to follow his path."

"… good luck, Darra," I said, at a loss for anything else. "Have a safe journey home."

"Oh, I will," she said, and disappeared into the street.

-x-

I thought that would be the last I saw of Darra. It was obvious the story had disturbed her, even if she'd never said it explicitly. I, too, felt strange after hearing myself tell it- when a call-out came just an hour later I was thankful that my patient's baby had chosen that night to exhume itself. I knew that, otherwise, I would have lain awake in bed for a long time.

Dawn had already broken when I came back. The night had exhausted me, and finally I was tired enough to sleep with a sound mind. As was to be expected, I dreamt about him. It does not happen so much now, but when it does, it is always the same. The same words, the same airless room, the same moment of escaping breath that seemed to me so much like death… the memory has fed itself through my mind so many times that I keep expecting it to wear like an old sphererecording. It never does.

I did not wake until the afternoon sun warmed my face through the window. The day was beautifully bright- and suddenly the dream and Darra seemed a million miles away. It was sixteen years later. I had another life now. The child knew the truth; finally, I could let go. For a few days, I was able to forget.

I suppose I should have seen it coming.

On the fifth day of my release, I came home to find somebody I recognised waiting at my doorstep.

"Orfeo!" I ran to greet him. It had been a long time, but my gratitude towards him remained. He had, after all, helped me. On the night that Darra was born he had rushed me into my room and given me a warm cloak to hide underneath.

"Put this on," he'd said, "and hurry. Someone will bring you your possessions in the morning. Speak to the Shoopuf owner at the bank of the Moonflow- he will tell you what to do with the child- and then wait there. Do not worry, Heba. She will be safe. I have made sure of it."

I didn't argue with him. I'd known him long enough to trust him. Still, I was puzzled. "What about Jyscal?"

"I will see to him," the doctor said. He looked grave. "Jyscal cannot know she is still alive. It is important you keep her hidden. I had… orders to kill her."

"From  _Jyscal_?"

"No. From the people who killed Riana."

Realisation dawned within me. "You helped her escape. Why?"

"I have daughters," he said simply.

Seeing him waiting for me outside my home reminded me of them. He'd shown me a picture once. They were quite young- about the same age as Seymour had been. I did not get a chance to ask him how they were, because as soon as he saw me, he gave a low, agitated bow.

"Heba! Please, forgive me for this intrusion-"

"It's alright, Doctor. It's been a long time-"  _You will never guess who I spoke to earlier this week,_  I was about to say, but his expression stopped me.

"Something has happened. It is- not safe to stay in Guadosalam any more," he said, his voice quavering. "You are the only one I could turn to- please forgive me-"

"Don't apologise." I opened the door and gestured for him to come in. "Tell me what happened."

"The leader of the Guado people is dead."

His voice froze me in my steps.

"Tromell- somebody has murdered him. Brutally. His body…"

I knew this story.

"… it could not have been a fiend, the cut was so precise…"

I should have seen it coming.

"… our city is now without a leader again! Disputes for power are tearing us apart…"

Orfeo's voice faded out of my hearing, and I felt my knees go slightly weak. Where would Darra go now? Would she try to find the others? Would she come back for us, or would she, as the rightful heir, find some way to seize power? Supporters of the Maester still existed, albeit few and hidden. Would she try to find them? I had no way of knowing, but whatever was going to happen, I knew it had already been set in motion.

For not the first time in my life, I fell asleep that night wondering what I had released upon the world.


	15. EPILOGUE

I had the dream again that night. It was the same as always- the same words, the same airless room. A child's cry cutting through the heat, the feel of a painfully thin wrist in my hand. His fingers catch on mine. He has strength left only to tug, and whisper.

"If it's a boy…" he says. I am aware that his life is slipping away. He dies in every dream. Sleeping, I am more aware than ever that it was a corpse I saw walking through the dock at Luca. Godspeed, Darra, you have your mother's soul.

"If it's a boy… Auron. No-," He closes his eyes, with the desperation of a dying man too weak to tell his last secret. "Don't call it that. I would rather that be forgotten. If it is a boy, call him what you wish. The truth will only hurt him."

Then his body falls still, and his hand slips from my own.


End file.
